


the golden hour

by LadySpearWife



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Short & Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySpearWife/pseuds/LadySpearWife
Summary: “Yeah, we did it.”“I can’t-.” He giggles, squeezing his eyes shut, pretending that the sight of Frenkie’s smile doesn’t add fuel to the fire he has burning inside him. “I can’t believe it.”“Me neither,” Frenkie sighs, melodic and dazed and absolutely beautiful.
Relationships: Frenkie de Jong/Matthijs de Ligt
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	the golden hour

It’s late enough to be early, sunlight flickering into their hotel room and coating the world in a golden underlining. Matthijs’ head pounds, a sharp reminder that he’s not used to the kind of night out that defeating Real Madrid in the Bernabéu requires.

Oh, _Jesus_. They really did it.

Matthijs laughs, light-headed, blood pounding in his ears. “Frenkie, we did it.”

He squeezes the tender flesh of Frenkie’s calf, running the tips of his fingers over the bones scrapping the skin – it’s strangely intimate, even for them, but Matthijs doesn’t care. The clatter of thunder as the current champions fell in disgrace still echoes in his chest, something vindictively satisfying in the memory. Frenkie hums, pleased and tired. His foot digs gently on Matthijs’ thigh before he raises his head, showing a sliver of a smile and his bright eyes before falling limp on the mattress again.

“Yeah, we did it.”

“I can’t-.” He giggles, squeezing his eyes shut, pretending that the sight of Frenkie’s smile doesn’t add fuel to the fire he has burning inside him. “I can’t believe it.”

“Me neither,” Frenkie sighs, melodic and dazed and absolutely beautiful.

Silence stretches on between them, as the sun climbs on the sky and colors Madrid with their victory. With his eyes closed, Matthijs can picture it perfectly, the overflowing stadium thrumming with energy and the chants each time they scored and the damning glint in Frenkie’s flushed face as they screamed and roared and jumped when the referee whistled one last time. It’s all hued in gold, stainless and beautiful and breathtaking. Matthijs could live in this memory forever, reliving it eternally.

His loop of joy – Frenkie jumping in his arms and hiding his face in the crook of his neck in the locker room, ignoring all the cheering and taunting just to smile that radiant, world-shattering smile of his – is ended with shuffling on the bed. Frenkie retreats his feet from Matthijs’ lap slowly. He’s sitting now, legs crossed a little childishly, chewing on his bottom lip. It’s infuriating and distracting, and Matthijs itches to soothe, to run his fingers over it tenderly, to – oh, he’s absolutely screwed.

To kiss.

To kiss _Frenkie_.

Frenkie who has been a grounding, steady presence in Ajax’s locker room, all tenderness and sunshine grins and a sharp head on the field. Frenkie who plays far too much FIFA and doesn’t tell jokes that are really funny – Matthijs always laughs, because it’s _him_ of all people telling them – and lets his hair grow messy. Frenkie who fits perfectly in his arms and doesn’t close his eyes even when Matthijs kicks a ball in his direction. Frenkie who trusts him far too much and doesn’t doubt his armband.

“Matthijs,” he calls, voice damningly soft, almost a whisper in the golden calm of this early morning. “If I do something, do you promise to not get mad?

How could he ever be mad when it’s Frenkie? “Yeah, I promise.”

“Really?”

Frenkie shifts, fidgeting with the sheets, hair in perpetual disarray and shirt hanging open and eyes a little bloodshot. It feels oddly intimate to have both of them in a single bed, far too narrow to fit two people. Matthijs sucks in a breath. “Yeah, really.”

As if he could ever stay mad at _him_ of all people.

There’s a nervous, hesitant moment where nothing happens. Where Matthijs can waste precious moments admiring Frenkie’s elegant hands, all sharp joints and long fingers, as they curl on the pale sheets. Their breathing falls into a careful tandem, slowing down. It’s the morning after they conquered their spot in the quarter finals against Real Madrid. This exists in a realm of numberless, unconquerable possibilities, all of them waiting to be unfolded. He’s never felt so collected and so reckless.

Then, the balance is snapped, string of fate finally measured. Frenkie is curled by his side, face to face at the end of the bed, hair falling over his face. His breath stinks of champagne, and his eyes are impossibly blue and bright, glancing at him nervously as they flicker through the entire room. The heat of Frenkie’s body is addictive, so close that Matthijs doesn’t resist the impulse of leaning in. His hands’ itch to trace, to prove to himself that this is real. That the pink curve of his lips is there and that he can dream of having him forever. Of them getting to grow old and successful in Ajax together.

Frenkie either isn’t prone to fits of melancholia or is too impatient to deal with them. His palm is warm and sweaty on the back of Matthijs’ head, delicately soft and yet scorching. He has one last glimpse of flush dusting his cheeks before Frenkie’s mouth is pressing against his, insistent and tender and damning all at once. Matthijs’ heart stops before racing, drumming against his ribcage because this is real. Last night happened and Frenkie is kissing him and they’re pressed together, chest-to-chest in a narrow bed.

Matthijs doesn’t know when his arm ended up thrown around Frenkie’s slender waist, pressed on the small of his back, dragging him even closer. The recklessness dripping from their mouths as they kiss sloppily forces him to dial his mind down, to hollow his head and focus only on how good Frenkie feels against him. Like he belongs, like they could do this for entire ages, like there’s nothing in the world save for this.

“Hey Matts, sorry for doing that when you’re hungover,” Frenkie whispers ruefully, but he’s grinning too much, metaphorical canary feathers over his teeth, and it’s not very convincing at all. Matthijs doesn’t manage to fight back a grin of his own.

“You sure look very apologetic.”

“Don’t use words like apologetic on me when I’m still drunk.” He rolls his eyes, but it’s dampened by the way he leans into Matthijs, breathing softly against his neck.

They’re both kings of the world, leading Ajax into the quarter finals, and _happy_.

**Author's Note:**

> still riding the high of that round of 16 man


End file.
